


Psychosomatic

by wsherlocksholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wsherlocksholmes/pseuds/wsherlocksholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's limp is back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychosomatic

Sherlock hadn't mentioned it right away, but he noticed.

The limp. It was back.

At first it was a subtle change, only evident every few steps. As time grew, it became more prominent and harder to ignore. Sherlock was confused. Cases had been exciting lately; lots of mysteries and murders. John's dating life hadn't changed drastically in any way. Sherlock had even begun cleaning the flat, much to his chagrin. No more body parts in the fridge. Poisons were labelled properly and kept in a designated kitchen cabinet away from anything edible. He had even gone so far as to stop playing the violin past what John had called a 'reasonable' cutoff of 22:00, but the limp refused to leave.

"I made tea," Sherlock announced as John padded over to the table in a robe, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Any drugs or eyeballs in it this time?" John asked grumpily, pulling a chair out and sitting down.

"No, just regular tea. If you want I can make some toast and eggs. I'll even eat some myself. And I got fresh milk; we were nearly out."

John rubbed his face in his hands. "Sherlock, what's going on?" he sighed.

Sherlock hesitated. "John... is everything okay at work?

"Yeah, same old clinic, same old work. Why? Is a nurse poisoning the patients?"

"No..."

"Mmm. I'm not really hungry this morning, Sherlock, but you should have something anyway." John took a small sip of the tea before pushing out of his chair and heading back towards his room. "I'm going to call out sick and head to bed."

"You never call out sick."

The shorter man turned back towards the table, leaning heavily on one leg.

"John. Why are you limping again? Is it something I've done? I can change, I promise!"

Sherlock had expected John to dismiss his concern or tell him how truly terrible it was to live with him. He had not expected John to break down crying, collapsing to the floor and releasing strong sobs behind his hands. After the shock wore off he was in front of John, pulling his hands away and looking at reddened, teary cheeks and swollen eyes. "John. You can tell me. What is it?"

John heaved a sigh as little sobs bubbled out, before he managed, "I... I have cancer. Sh-Sherlock, I'm d-d-dying. Two weeks."

That was the day Sherlock watched his life crumble away in three sentences.

In thirteen more, John Watson's ended.

Followed shortly by that of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try a new thing where I write something every day, at least 100 words. Sometimes I'll post little things and other times I'll work on my other works. Sorry this one is sad.


End file.
